


beat to hell

by hardlygolden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Dealfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlygolden/pseuds/hardlygolden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Save your energy for someone you can actually save, Sam."</i> Sometimes your brother can bail you out. Sometimes he can't. Dean suspects "going to hell" falls into the second category.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat to hell

Dean kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor: tacky linoleum that was probably old before Dean was even born.

 

The sheriff leaned against the wall of Dean’s cell, talking through the bars. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he said. Dean wasn’t in the mood. He’d heard that too many times already, this week alone.

 

He was already nursing what felt like a cracked rib from a bar fight gone sour _(but you should have seen the other guy, Sammy, no really, you shoulda seen him_) and the buzz from last night had faded into a low pounding that stretched from his gut to his chest, which was unusually tight.

 

 “Don’t need your help,” Dean grit out, because he _didn’t. _

 

“Look,” the sheriff began. “I’ve got witnesses that say it wasn’t your fault. I’ve got two co-eds swearing up and down that guy that was hassling them, and you were just trying to help. Still,” the sheriff said, reflectively, “that doesn’t give you license to beat the hell out of him.”

 

Dean stared back, willing himself not to react.

 

*

 

“I’m here for my client,” he heard Sam say to the pretty receptionist in the hallway, who’d let Dean make the phone call a few hours ago. Dean let his head fall back against the concrete wall  with a dull thud, just a fraction harder than he’d anticipated. It didn’t matter. The pain kept him awake, kept him on the edge.

 

Sam was here.

 

Sam was standing in the doorway behind him, now. Dean didn’t need to turn around to know that -he’d spent most of his life keeping tabs on Sam – across schools and statelines, grocery stores and graveyards.

 

 “I’m here to bail out my client,” Sam repeated, voice smooth and confident, and Dean didn’t need to look at him to know that Sam was wearing a suit, with a shirt he’d probably hastily ironed in a crappy motel room with an iron that spat dirty water and a tie that had seen far, far better days.

 

“You this man’s lawyer?” the sheriff asked, brow furrowing, but Sam was already blinking slow, the way he always did before he smoothed his face and tucked his feelings away, eased into the lie.

 

“That’s right,” Sam said. “I’m his lawyer. And I’m getting him out of here.”

 

*

 

“I’m going to get you out of this deal, Dean,” Sam said, as if he was planning on marching up to the very gates of hell in that exact suit, and announce that he was here to bail out his brother.

 

Knowing Sam, he probably would. But Dean couldn’t let himself count on it, couldn’t let himself believe it, never mind how desperately he wanted to. If he believed it, Sam would too, and he couldn’t let Sam believe he could be saved when every single sign pointed to the fact that _no, actually, he couldn’t. _

 

It was dumb and superstitious, but as plans go, he’d tried a lot worse.

 

 “Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, and when he saw Sam hunched over a well-thumbed edition of _Faust _that night, he didn’t say anything – just slid over the local paper, where he’d already circled the article about the college kid who’d gone missing in the state forest. The sixth person in as many months to go missing.

 

Sam looked up, quirking an eyebrow at him.

 

Dean reached out and shut _Faust _with considerably more force than strictly necessary. “Save your energy for someone you can actually save, Sam,” he said, and Sam glared at him.

 

Then he blinked – slow - and his face smoothed into practiced blankness, and when he spoke his voice was calm and level. “Okay,” he said, “So. What have we got here?”

 

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and began sketching out the details of their next case, like this was any other day, like they weren’t both beat to hell and lying through their teeth.


End file.
